


a question before i go (a favor from you, my foe)

by bratwonders



Series: Twitter Headcanons [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alcohol, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian Wayne's Metal Spine, Gen, No Romance, SHIPPERS BEGONE, Underage Drinking, damian is going thru a lot, just guys being dudes, post batman #77, undiagnosed depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23412577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bratwonders/pseuds/bratwonders
Summary: Damian's never tried alcohol; Slade gives him some advice.
Relationships: Damian Wayne & Slade Wilson
Series: Twitter Headcanons [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684120
Comments: 8
Kudos: 94





	a question before i go (a favor from you, my foe)

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @bratwonders

If you asked him what exactly led him to _this_ particular doorstep on _this_ particular night, he couldn’t really tell you, not at all. Perhaps he was looking for an escape, some time away from the so-called “daily grind.” Being Robin _did_ get exhausting.

Perhaps he ended up here by accident. His brain was clouded and he wasn’t thinking straight, maybe he blacked out and managed to stumble here without him even knowing.

He wished that were the case. That would be easier to explain than this. Than -- than the fact he had _wanted, yearned_ to arrive at this doorstep and just _get away_ from everything else. It didn’t make sense to him, it wouldn’t make sense to anyone.

But perhaps that didn’t matter right now. What mattered was that he _was_ here, and now that he was here, there was really no reason not to just knock on the door and go inside.

How bad could it really be?

When he raised his fist to knock on the door, he realized his hands were shaking slightly. He pulled away and sighed, rubbing his hand on his thigh. He didn’t know why he was so nervous.

He knew it would be so easy to walk away. He was due home, soon, anyway. How _easy_ would it be to just go home and pretend everything is fine, to take off his Robin mask and put on a new one.

Still.

He knocked on the door.

He knew he’d be home, where else would he be? Where else would anyone be?

The door opened with a surprising amount of swiftness. He didn’t hesitate, which was strange, considering _who_ might have been knocking on his door. No mask, no weapons, no _pants._ It was… unbecoming, for lack of a better term. 

Maybe he should have been surprised at the _lack_ of surprise the man showed. After all, he and his father were enemies, borderline nemeses. If Damian’s (hypothetical) son’s arch nemesis arrived at his door, it would be a little surprising. To see the clear apathy on a face like his when confronted with Damian, it was strange.

Maybe, in the man’s haze, he failed to recognize the vigilante sidekick at his door.

“Wilson.”

The man ran a hand through his silver hair, greasy and disheveled in all its glory. 

“Kid?”

Damian pursed his lips at the nickname. _“Robin_ is fine, thank you.”

Slade made a sour face that formed into a wry smile. “Y’gotta sense of humor, huh?”

_Barely._ He pressed his lips into a thin line and looked behind him into his apartment. It was truly a mess. Clothes were strewn out across the floor, from socks to underpants to eyepatches. There were stains -- most likely beer and food stains -- all over the couch and wall. Not to mention blood stains in the carpet, splattered on the walls, even drops on the ceiling. He must have had an interesting night.

“Are you gonna come in or what?”

Damian grimaced at his crude, unsophisticated language. Surely a man like him knew better than to be so _crass._ Even _Todd_ held himself to a higher standard than this. 

Todd…

He shook his head to rid himself of the thought. He brushed past Slade and stepped inside the small Gotham apartment, kicking away an empty beer can. The couch was even worse up close, springs sticking out and rips in the fabric. Truly, he couldn’t understand how _anyone_ could live like this.

Slade retreated into the kitchen, which was only a mere ten feet away from the living room. The apartment was terribly small, he was partially convinced the entire thing was smaller than his _bedroom._

“Nice place…” he drawled, staying in place because there was absolutely _no way_ he was sitting on that damn couch.

“It’s just temporary.” The older man muttered. He grabbed some black sweats and started slipping them on. “Sometimes a hero’s gotta make do.”

_Hero._ How funny.

Damian was about to comment on that little detail, because there was no way he’d let it slip by that easily, but he didn’t get the chance as a glass bottle was suddenly thrust into his hands. He looked at the brownish bottle and frowned. “What’s this?”

Slade’s expression was unreadable for a moment, before splitting into an amused, toothy smile. “Heh. _What’s this.”_ He mocked. _“What’s this._ It’s beer.”

Damian raised his eyebrows a fraction. Ah. He could’ve guessed that. In the silence, he was left wondering why he _didn’t_ guess it. He swayed the bottle back and forth in his hands as if he expected the liquid inside to do anything other than shimmy lifelessly. Truthfully he had never _tried_ alcohol, the thought never really appealed to him, not then and certainly not now. If anything, right in the moment he was craving one of those cardboard boxes filled with apple juice you would suck through a needless straw.

And he was only partially ashamed of the fact he was craving one of those needless straws for the alcohol right now.

He put the bottle up to his lips and took a small sip. Immediately he recoiled, pushing down the liquid through his throat and pulling the bottle away.

“That’s disgusting.”

And it was. He didn’t understand how some people got _addicted_ to this vile liquid. It went down rough and felt like acid on his tongue. 

“Beer’s an acquired taste. Drink some more, maybe you’ll start to like it.” He smirked. Damian made a show out of rolling his eyes and putting the bottle down.

He definitely could use a juice box right now.

Slade took a bottle for himself and drank almost half of it at once. It made Damian want to gag -- how disgusting.

“Why are you here?”

Ah. The inevitable question. Damian told himself he didn’t have an answer, but, maybe that was false.

Surely he shouldn’t _want_ to be here. Slade had meddled with the Bat-Family few too many times to be considered an ally, done too many unspeakable things to be called a _hero,_ and personally fucked up Damian’s life too much to be called a friend. So it’s strange, why Damian didn’t harbor any ill will towards the man. He certainly _should._

Damian still had not, and most likely never would forget the little stunt he pulled years ago. Yes, it _was_ his mother’s fault for letting Slade take complete control of his _fucking spine_ and attack Dick, but the feeling of not having any control over his own body — feeling Slade controling him down to his toes and fingers, it sent a chill down his spine, even after this time. It was a position he certainly didn’t want to be a part of again. And not once had Slade truly apologized, or even proved himself worthy of forgiveness. So, by all means, Damian should be _furious,_ ready to exact revenge at any moment.

But he wasn’t, and he wouldn’t.

Right now, he was just happy to have someone who wanted him around. Or, at least… didn't _not_ want him around.

The truth is, he _did_ have an answer, as much as he didn’t like it.

“I wanted to come.”

Slade took another large, disgusting swing of his beer. “Uh huh. Why?”

Damian ran his tongue over his teeth. He reached over and grabbed the previously discarded bottle of alcohol, looking at it pensively.

“I need your advice.”

There was an uneasy silence, before the older man burst into laughter. “Are you fuckin’ serious?”

Damian frowned deeply. Vulgarity was usually something Damian didn’t tolerate. It was immature and rather hard on the ears. _Real_ men should hold themselves to a higher standard.

“Yes.”

“Kid -- _kid_ \-- did you hit your head or something?”

“I’m not a kid,” he muttered, “and _no._ I’ve exhausted all other resources.” He pursed his lips, debating if he should leave it at that. Slade most likely wouldn’t even understand. “In layman’s terms, you’re all I have left.”

“You’re _joking.”_

“No, I’m not.”

Slade looked into his eyes, the humor slowly dissipating as he realized Damian _wasn’t_ joking.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Damian sighed shakily and took another sip of the gross liquid. It went down a little easier this time, but still didn’t feel good. “I… just need a distraction tonight. You’re the only one I could think to come to. Everyone else is either dead or doesn’t care.”

He glanced up at Slade, who, at this point, looked more concerned than confused. “Why didn’t you just, you know, go _home?”_

Damian smiled dryly. “The manor? Don’t be stupid. The manor is not my home.”

“Then where _is_ your home?”

His face soured a bit. What a fucking great question.

“The simple answer is I don’t have one.” He said quietly, more to himself. _Isn’t that sad?_

Slade tilted his head, regarding the boy carefully. Like he was thinking of the right thing to say. “Alright. You wanna… stay here for the night, or something?”

Damian’s eyes widened a fraction. He hadn’t expected Slade to actually invite him to stay.

“Would you be okay with that?” He asked tentatively. He knew Father would be angry that he hadn’t come home. A small voice told him, _Alfred will worry._

But he can’t, and he won’t.

The thought was too much for him, and he took a rather large swig of his drink.

“Fine by me… if you don’t mind sleeping on a shitty couch.” He mumbled. He pulled his hair back into a bun absentmindedly. 

Damian looked at the couch with disdain. 

Well, it’s not the _worst_ thing he’s ever slept on.

“Alright.”

Slade pressed his lips into a thin line. “Did you… want to talk or something?”

Nothing was said between the two for a short while. Damian’s immediate answer should be _no._ It usually is.

It was very apparent that Slade was not like his father. Certainly not when it came to children. Slade _was_ a father, a fact easily forgotten by most. Damian couldn’t tell you if the man was a good father or not, but he knew he at least _cared_ for them.

Sometimes, that felt like more than Bruce could ever do.

“How…” his voice cracked embarrassingly and he quickly cleared his throat, “how is my mother?”

Slade’s eyes widened a bit. He licked his chapped lips as he thought of an answer. “Your mother... She’s fine. We haven’t talked in a while.”

Damian nodded. He took a drink of his beer, and it didn’t taste that bad anymore. “The last time you saw her. How was she?”

Slade sat on the couch, wiping some dust away. Damian bit his lip and hesitantly sat with him. “She was good. Healthy.”

A pause.

“She talked about you.”

His eyes widened and he looked up at Slade. His eyes were almost hopeful. “Me? What’d she say?”

Slade smiled a bit. Obviously he found some sort of amusement in Damian’s eagerness. He reached for the remote and turned on the small TV, a black and white French movie Damian immediately recognized as _Au Hasard Balthazar._ So, the man did have _some_ taste.

Slade reached for a ratty, frayed quilt and put it over Damian’s lap. The boy scrunched his nose in part confusion and part disgust, looking up at Slade. Slade looked down at him and shrugged.

“You looked cold.”

Damian was quiet for a moment. He… _was_ pretty cold. Gotham winters were harsh, even with the heated suits. The quilt didn’t bring much comfort, it was old, had holes in it and itchy, but the simple action _did._

“So…” he kicked his feet up on the ottoman and looked at the screen. “Talia.”

Damian pushed down the small smile that was threatening to cover his face and nodded curtly.

He didn’t want to admit it, but this was _much better_ than going back to the manor for the night.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to suggest some headcanons for me to write, consider following me on Twitter (@bratwonders)!
> 
> [Click here to send me some support!](https://ko-fi.com/bratwonders)


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